He Just Couldn't
by ZombieDork
Summary: Sam is in a coma.
1. He Just Couldn't

_Beep...beep...beep...beep...beep..._

Dean watches his brother from the doorway of the secluded hospital room where Sam is just a vegetable on a shiny hospital bed, and Dean pretend he's just asleep. His chest raises and lowers as he breathes, but he doesn't really look alive. Dean is reminded of the day he had to lay his dead brother on the old, stained bed at Bobby's place. Standing in the doorway, there was nothing to do but stare, vision blurred by the stinging tears gathering in his dead eyes, and think about all that could be but never would; the complete 180 his life just took. He couldn't do it. He just couldn't do it.

Dean sees his brother with the tubes wrapped around his ears and in his nose, keeping him breathing. Alive. He sees Sam in that hospital bed, his face smooth and flawless, his hair kept and neat against the pillow, but he doesn't really see his brother. Dean is reminded of Sam being possessed by Lucifer. His face was the same, but it wasn't really. His eyes were dark and filled to the brim with fury, his smirk was evil and cringe-worthy. Dean hated every inch of Sam's body like he never though he could. He wasn't the snot-nosed kid Dean had practically raised, he was Satan. But that didn't mean he was going to leave him to die. He couldn't do it. He just couldn't do it.

Dean thinks of what his life will be from here. Sam-less. No little brother to look after, like he's always done. His life is Sam. He sometimes feels like he'd turn into some sort of soulless creature without Sam to keep him on the right track. Dean is reminded of his year without Sam after he jumped in the pit, in which he spent with Lisa. He remembers the nightmares, the paranoia, never, _never, _feeling quite like himself. He tried, for Sam, to not turning into the hunter he knew he would if he had no reason not to. He tried, for Sam, to live the apple-pie life and be the common suburban man. But never, in that year, did he feel like he did with Sam around. Did he even feel like Dean. He couldn't do it. He just couldn't do it.

Dean thinks about what the doctors had told him. There's little-to-no chance that Sam would wake up. There's nothing left to try. There's nothing left for Dean to try either, even knowing what he knows. He's looked for some sort of miracle healer, called every hunter he knew to look too, but nothing came up. With every second, the little spark Dean had in his soul was getting dimmer. Dean is reminded of when Sam was going through his mental break-down and dying. Dean could barely hold himself together to look for a way to help Sam. He felt dark and empty inside. Everything he had told him that it was useless. That there was no way to get Sammy through it this time. He was dead. But there wasn't a chance Dean was letting Sam go again; he was through losing Sam. Losing Sam was losing his life and happiness and love. He couldn't do it. He just couldn't do it.

Dean knows that it's all up to him—whether Sam continues living, if you could call this state living, or pulling the plug and having absolutely nothing left of his brother except a cold corpse. The decision seems simple; he needs to keep his brother with him. Alive. That's really the only option. But is it really an option at all? Dean is reminded of when he was in a coma all those years ago. He was a ghost, and he refused to let go. To die. Sam doesn't have that option; he's going to keep living if Dean let's him... but only half-alive. He'll be a spirit. He'll never be at rest. He'll be stuck in this world for as long as Dean keeps him here, and he'll have no one... just himself, isolated in his own cold universe, begging Dean to let him go in a voice so quiet not even the angels can hear him. Sam deserves peace... but Dean wants his brother breathing... He can't do it. _He just can't do it!_

_Beep...beep...beep...beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee eeeep!_


	2. Prequel (Part 1)

—**Two Weeks Earlier—**

Sam wakes up, his head throbbing and his whole body drenched in sweat. He tries to reach for his forehead to wipe it away, but for some reason they won't move more than a couple centimeters, and all he feels is something scratching uncomfortably against his wrists. It takes him a couple seconds to realize, in his groggy state, that his hands are tied behind his back. He's also got rope around his torso and neck, he notices with a gag when he tries lean forward, keeping him where he is. Where is that, again? Sam's, he can't see anything but a kaleidoscope of dull colors. Sam's depth perception is skewed; he can't tell if the room is five by five feet or twenty by twenty. And the light shining from the single bulb on the shadeless lamp in the corner of the room... Why is it _so _bright? It makes Sam's head pound even harder against his skull. For the life of him, Sam can't remember how he even ended up here...

Dean is freaking out. He hasn't seen Sam in a couple hours. This shouldn't worry him as much as it does, but Sam left to check out where he thought the monster they're hunting might be hiding out, _without him, _and Sam won't pick up his freaking phone! "Dammit, Sammy!" Dean yells, throwing his perfectly-useless-at-this-point phone across the almost empty motel room. "_Fuck _this!" He yelled again at no one in particular and charged out the door, grabbing his phone with the now-cracked screen and missing "2" button. "_Dammit!" _He exclaims one more time for good measure.

Sam wracks his brain for memories of anything before ten minutes ago, but all he can focus on is his breathing because it's starting to get pretty difficult with the rope around his neck. He wonders how long he's been here. How he got here. What brought him here. Where Dean is... If Dean's looking for him. He sure hopes so, because there is no way he's getting out of this one on his own. There's fresh blood on his shirt, and some still oozing out of a gash in his arm, which of course is a mystery to him how it appeared, and he can feel the tickle of some, also, drizzling out of his nose. Sam concludes that he can't have been strapped up in this place too long, or else the bleeding would have stopped by now. Sam has a spark of memory, he thinks.

Dean decides the best place to start is asking the motel manager if he knew which way he went. _It would have been nice if you at least told me where you were going, Sammy. _Dean thinks. He'd be really fucking pissed if he wasn't so damn worried.

"The guy I came here with, you see which way he left?" Dean asks between quick breaths. He doesn't know how he got so out breath in the short sprint from his motel room to the lobby.

"The sasquatch?" The wide, shady-looking man with a lazy eye that makes him look like he's staring over Dean's shoulder asks.

"That's the one," Dean smirks, amused by the way he described his admittedly sasquatch-like brother.

"Well, uh, I think he might'a gone left outa the parkin' lot, but ain't sure, man," he growled.

_Thanks for nothing,_ Dean thinks as he storms out, the old door creaking noisily and that annoying little bell ringing as he flung it open, debating whether he should trust the idiot's word and head left or search for a more reliable source. "Wait," he whispers, feeling stupid that he hadn't thought of this an hour ago. "Can I use your computer?"

Sam is gasping for breath now. There's no way the rope was this tight fifteen minutes ago. He's not quite being strangled yet, but that doesn't mean the breathing process is coming easy to him at all. The throbbing in his head hasn't ceased, and that light really isn't helping. All he wants to do is close his eyes and shut out the painful glaring of the lamp, but he knows that if he shuts his eyes for more than five seconds, he'll undoubtedly lose consciousness. At least he's remembered—partially—how he ended up here. Dean and him are hunting some stupid Pagan god, and in hopes of finding exactly which god it is, Sam got himself knocked out, kidnapped, a nice, deep cut that's going to need stitches, and a concussion, if he's not mistaken. (And he still doesn't know what god it is; he saw a face, but he doesn't know who it belonged to. He didn't look like a god. He didn't look like anything more than a normal human, compared to the things Sam's seen...) _Dammit, _Sam thinks. A small supply of oxygen to his brain is exactly what he needs right now. _Hurry up, Dean. _Sam thinks, assuming Dean's searching for him by now. He really wishes he had told him where he was going.

Dean is tracking the GPS in Sam's phone on the motel manager's computer (for a small bribe of fifty dollars.) "An hour away? Really, Sammy?" Dean whispers to himself. He was really counting on him being no more than ten minutes away. Dean doesn't know if Sam will even be alive in an hour. _You don't know if he's alive now, _he reminds himself. He pushes the thought away and clicks out of the web browser on the clunky dinosaur computer he was using. "Thanks," he says, and the man grunts in response, apparently too busy recounting his money to give any attention to Dean. His ears ring painfully along with the bell above the motel door and his head begins to throb. He can't get the thought out of his over-thinking mind that Sam may not be okay at all. That he'll find his brother's dead body in an hour instead of the lively, little bitch of a brother he's got with a huge smile on his face, relieved to see Dean.

"Dean," Sam whispers with the breath he barely has, "_Dean..." _he coughs out the only word that's worth saying.

Dean steps harder against the gas pedal. Speeds up another ten miles per hour, his mind on Sammy—on what state Sammy could be in. The vision of a cold, dead Sam is buzzing around in his head, and he can't get it to leave him the fuck alone.

Slipping in and out of Consciousness, Sam struggles against his restraints, begging a god he knows doesn't give a shit to help him out here. The rope is so tight around Sam's neck that every breath he takes is with a great effort that Sam is growing to tired to provide. He still doesn't know what's going on. Why the rope is getting tighter. Who is doing this to him. But the only thing he can think about is Dean. Is he coming? Is he close? Is he even looking? _Dean..._

The tires of the Impala squeal as Dean pulls into the old gravel drive of the warehouse the GPS in Sam's phone had located. He rips the key out of the ignition, practically tears the door off its hinges as he throws it open and sprints to the door, as quietly and quickly as he could, his pistol ready to shoot. He kicks open the door, harder than he needed to, for it was brittle and weak and already starting to fall apart. Dean looks around the small shed and expects to see Sam, waiting for his rescue, but instead he sees... nothing... just a dark room in an old, rickety building. "What the fuck?" Dean whispers, so confused he just stood there in a daze.

* * *

It got longer than expected so I split it into two parts. Don't fret, the second part is coming.

Gimme some love or gimme some (non-aggresive) hate, I want it all.

Thanks for reading.

Love, Katie 3


	3. Prequel (Part 2)

Sam can't even tell if he's awake or not—if he's alive or not—but he was pretty fucking sure he heard some loud crash above him, and if it isn't Dean there is no hope left for Sam, though he's pretty sure there isn't any anyways. The rope around his neck has stopped getting tighter, but that's no relief to Sam, for it's now tight enough to cut off his breathing almost entirely. He wants to shout for Dean, shout for his brother at the top of his lungs, but they are so deprived of the air they need there's no point in trying. Maybe if he kicks the ground, shakes the pillar he's tied to, he can get Dean's attention, but alas, he is just too weak. He gives up. He gives up his hope in Dean. He gives up breathing.

Dean isn't ready to give up. He pulls a flashlight he thanks God he brought with him out of his jacket and flicks it on, illuminating the whole room. Piles of unorganized papers are scattered on the floor; a desk with a leg missing sits crooked against the far wall; inches of dust settled on everything. It doesn't look like the place has been touched in years. And it's so tiny. There is definitely no one here. But Sam's phone has to be here. Which means Sam is here... Dean's best bet is finding Sam's phone. He throws the scattered papers around, causing dust to fly up in his face and he starts sneezing and coughing. He doesn't finding anything but a few dead mice and quite a few more living cockroaches. Dean pulls out his phone and dials Sam's number.

_Ring ring. Ring ring. _Sam is definitely hearing something, unsure if it's in his head or not. _Are those heaven bells chiming? _Sam thinks, but then he laughs it off gently, though it's more of a weak, hacking cough. The rope is just loose enough around is neck for him to be able to get short, rasping breaths in, but that gains him no reassurance

_No. It would be hell fire..._

Dean hears the familiar ring tone of Sam's cellphone, but it's not in this room. It's distant but audible... It's under him. That means there has to be a basement or a cellar here and some way to get to it. Dean starts tearing through the papers looking for a trap door or something. He looks over at the desk and smirks. He flips it over with all his force and sees a little wooden door blended in with the floor boards, but there's a lock attached, and Dean obviously doesn't have the key. He remembers how weak the wood of the front door was and decides the easiest solution is to smash it with his foot. With all his force he shoves his shoe into the hatch and the whole thing falls apart as if it was made of nothing more than thin twigs. Dean doesn't bother with the ladder leading to the room below; he jumps down, falling on all fours. He looks up and sees Sam. His fist thought is, _thank god! _but his second is, _Oh, god!_ Sam's head is lolled over onto his shoulder; he doesn't look like he's breathing. Dean notices the rope way too tight around his neck and his heart skips a beat. He sprints over to Sammy, tripping, falling to his knees several times on the way but does not allow that to stop him. He slices the rope with his knife before even bothering to check if Sam's alive. His head droops even more with the release of the ropes, and when he lets out a miniscule cough, Dean feels his muscles relax, and he cuts away the other ropes. First his hands, then his torso, and Dean has to catch Sam so he doesn't drop to the dirty floor that is stained with Sam's—and possibly other's—dried blood . "Sam," Dean whispers, hugging his brother not as tight as he would like to; he can feel his brother's weakness with the whole weight of him is in his arms. Dean has never been so happy to feel Sam's warm breath against his neck.

Sam opens his eyes, but he doesn't see anything, just the recognizable blur of colors. He feels the touch of skin against him, and that he's free from his restraints, but he's unable to put together the pieces telling him that Dean came. Sam lost hope in his brother, but he found him, and he saved him. "Dean?" Sam's voice is weak, weaker than Sam would ever want it to be when talking to his brother.

"Shush, Sammy," Dean orders, still holding him as close to him as he can. "I got ya."

Sam tries to take a deep breath, fill his lungs back up, but a big, nasty cough gets in the way and he hacks all over Dean, but Dean doesn't flinch. Not until Sam's vision clears a bit, and his brain, though oxygen deprived, can function semi-normally, does he register that there is a tall figure standing over the brothers with a crowbar. "_Dean!" _Sam squeals in his dry voice.

Dean stands up, involuntarily taking Sam with him, who is keeping his hands on Dean to keep him upright, and is eye-to-eye with the man—or pagan god, he's assuming. The god brings the crowbar up over his shoulder like a bat, prepared to swing. Dean is surprised to see a _god _use a crowbar as a weapon, they're usually strong enough to not need weapons. But Dean doesn't dwell on it too much, because either way a crowbar is flying towards his head. He ducks, falls to the ground, but Sam doesn't follow, the hands gripped to Dean's jacket loosened and let him go, and with Dean's mind is racing so fast, he doesn't even notice...

Sam sees it coming, sees the psychotic grin on the man's face, but with his mind running so slowly and his body so weak, he can't react fast enough. He isn't really expecting as much pain as experienced as the crowbar made contact with the side of his head, but it's okay, because it disintegrates as fast as it materialized. And he could barely feel the dislocation of his shoulder as he crashed to the ground; he was too busy writhing and seizing into unconsciousness.

Dean jumps back up and shoots the man, not figuring it'll do much to a god, but it's all he's got. The man falls backwards, blood spilling out of his chest and coughing it up, too. Dean stares, confused, at the dying, bloody figure on the floor, a pool of blood surrounding him and soiling his once-white t-shirt. "Well, _fuck!" _Dean can't help but laugh, "It was just some psycho. It was a human, Sam!" No response. "Sammy?" Dean turns around to find his brother rolling around on the ground, shaking, drooling, eyes twitching. He's having a seizure. He wasn't even paying any attention. How could he be so stupid to assume Sam had ducked too? Fuck. What the fuck is he supposed to do? _Fuck!_ Dean pulled out his cell phone and called 911, unable to do anything but stare at the seizing Sam. Not sure what else to do but stare.

* * *

Ugh, I could not get happy with this half. Sorry about the sucky. Really, really crappy ending. I suck.

This is it. This is the intended end of the fic, so unless you find yourself begging for more, it has been concluded. Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it when I should have been doing homework.

Love, Katie 3


End file.
